When They Ask You Why
by rebecca-in-blue
Summary: "Teachers always need more school supplies, but why would Magneto donate them?" When some metal pens arrive at the mansion, Professor X reminisces.


Set before X1. How long before is entirely up to you. Big thanks to my brother for beta-ing.

For my own reference: 74th fanfiction, 3rd story for _X-Men_.

* * *

_If they say why, why, why?_  
_Tell 'em that it's human nature  
_- Michael Jackson, "Human Nature"

Storm is almost distraught over it the next morning, after Scott brings in the oval-shaped metal sign that usually hangs on the school's front gate. A strong thunderstorm knocked it loose during the night, and it hit the ground so hard that there are now scratches over the words _Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters_. Scott had found it face-down in a puddle on the front driveway.

Storm had made sure that the thunderstorm stayed outside the school gates - it would've done serious damage to the landscaping, and besides, some of the youngest students are still afraid of thunder - and she feels responsible for the damage to the sign. "I knew how strong the winds were," she says. "I should've kept it further away from the gates."

She offers to pay for a new sign, but Professor Xavier just waves his hand and says not to worry about it, that he'll take care of it. Sure enough, one morning not a week later, Storm, Scott, and Jean are drinking coffee in the teacher's lounge before classes start, when the Professor rolls in with a package on his lap and says cheerfully, "Look what just arrived!"

They're all impressed by the new sign. It's larger and heavier than the old one; there will be no chance of this one getting damaged by the weather. The words are the same, _Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters_, but there's something new: an eye-catching, encircled _X_, just like the ones on their team uniforms. Jean touches it with one hand.

"It was a good idea to have them add this," she tells the professor.

"It wasn't my idea," he answers, "but I do like it. It's striking, isn't it?" He pauses, his eyes lingering on the clean, straight edges of the _X_, and even though Jean isn't _trying_ to read his mind, she can't help but sense some sort of strange, sad longing from him... But maybe she only imagines it, because then he adds, his voice cheerful again, "Oh, and these arrived with it." He pulls a handful of pens from the box and begins passing them out.

"Great," Scott says, taking a few. Like any teachers, they're always in need of pens. Jean takes some too, her eyebrows raising in surprise when she notices how high-quality they are. They're heavy silver pens, with the words _Xavier's School_ engraved on them, in the same font as the words on the sign.

"Are any of these red ink?" Storm asks. "I need some for grading papers."

"They're inkless, actually," the professor says. "They have an alloy tip, so they write with a very fine layer of metal, instead of ink. They're supposed to last longer than regular ink pens."

"Hey, I've heard of these," Scott says. He grabs a sheet of paper and begins scribbling on it with one of the new pens. The metal on the page looks like just ink, only a shade darker. "These are just on the market, aren't they?"

Jean frowns, wondering how much these pens cost. She's always been practical, and she doesn't see the point in spending the school's money on something like this when a bulk-sized box of ordinary ink pens would write just as well. "How much did you pay for these?" she asks Professor Xavier.

"They were donated," he answers, "anonymously."

His tone of voice changes halfway through the sentence, with just the slightest pause in his words, but Jean still notices it. She knows Professor Xavier better than Scott or Storm, and her telepathic abilities have made her extremely perceptive. She looks from the professor, to the school's new sign, to the pens in her hand, and suddenly, something that she didn't see earlier is now very obvious. Engraved luxury pens had to be expensive... unless you knew someone who could _make_ them.

"Someone donated these?" Jean asks, and she can't keep the skepticism out of her voice. She touches the sign again, and the metal is cool and perfectly smooth under her fingertips. The professor's sad sense of longing... "Someone donated this sign and pens that write in _metal_ instead of ink?"

Scott is still scribbling away with one of the pens, but at Jean's words, he stops, frowns, then quickly puts the pen down.

Storm catches onto her meaning at about the same time, but unlike Scott, she isn't bothered by what Jean is implying. "Come on, Jean," she asks, smiling, "you don't think this stuff is from _Magneto_? Why would_ he_ donate supplies to the school?"

"He's been doing it for years," Professor Xavier answers shortly.

Jean had her suspicions, but they're all surprised when he actually admits it. Her eyes widen, Scott asks loudly, "The hell?" and Storm actually drops the pen in her hands. It hits the floor with a metallic _bang_ so loud that it almost echoes in the small room.

"You don't mean... why would he..." Storm fumbles for words, then grabs the box that the sign and pens arrived in and peers inside. "Did you search this thing for explosives? Spyware?"

"No, and I can assure you that there's no reason to," Professor Xavier answers calmly. "As I just said, Erik has been donating supplies to the school for years."

"Why is he doing that?" Jean asks, mentally scanning their school supplies for anything made mostly of metal. "And what else has he, um... donated?"

The professor hesitates, now looking a bit sorry that he said anything. "It doesn't matter."

"Wait a minute. You said you've never been able to locate him through Cerebro," Storm points out. "How exactly did you tell him we needed a new sign?"

"We have a system worked out," the professor answers vaguely, and it's clear from his tone that he's not going to tell them one more word about this system.

"A system," Scott mutters under his breath. Jean can tell that he'd like to go on a rant about accepting school supplies from Magneto, but out of respect for Professor Xavier, he's holding back. One of the few times that any of them saw the professor angry was when Scott had said about Magneto, "He feels the same way about humans that Hitler felt about Jews." Professor Xavier had spun his wheelchair around - so quickly that Jean wondered how he didn't get whiplash - and said in his sternest tone, "Scott, I will _not_ listen to you or anyone else compare him to Hitler."

"I just... I mean, _why_ would he do this?" Scott bursts out now. It's the one question that the three of them are all asking, for none of them can understand why Magneto, their team's enemy, would donate anything to their school. "I thought you and he were... well..." Scott falls into an awkward silence, then sighs and finishes off his coffee. "I've got a science class to teach." He stands, picks up the pens after a hesitation, and leaves the room.

"Yeah, I better get to class, too," Storm says, and follows him out the door. As she passes by Jean, she holds out her share of the pens. "I don't think I want these. Here, Jean, you can have mine."

"Thanks," Jean nods. Regardless of where they came from, they're still very nice pens.

The door closes behind her, and for a moment, the only sounds are the ticking of the wall clock - did Magneto make that, too? - and the coffeemaker bubbling on the counter. Professor Xavier rolls over to it and pours himself a cup. Jeans twirls one of the pens between her thumb and finger.

"Did he actually make these?"

"Oh, yes," the professor answers, suddenly cheerful again. "He enjoys making things." He picks up a pad of paper and signs his name. "And they write so smoothly, don't they?"

Jean has never known exactly what sort of relationship Professor Xavier and Magneto used to have, and she isn't about to ask. It's none of her business, anyway. She's still wondering why Magneto would donate anything to them, but she isn't about to ask that, either.

Charles lingers in the room after Jean leaves, sipping his coffee and watching the pens shine in the morning sun. Erik had never once admitted it, but Charles knew that he enjoyed making things, and he enjoyed giving his old friend opportunities to be creative with metal, rather than destructive. They had agreed years ago that the things Erik made were to be used for the _school_ only, for the education of young mutants, and never for Charles's team of X-Men. Charles had agreed to it, and Erik had believed him. He had only requested a new sign for their front gates; the pens had been a surprise. It gladdened him to know that after all these years, Erik could still surprise him.

* * *

They know that he built Cerebro, years ago, but his X-Men don't know just how many other things in their mansion Erik has built more recently. In his bedroom that evening, Charles can't even glance around without seeing some of them. The Newton's Cradle on his windowsill is Erik's work, and there are others just like it throughout the mansion - one in the library, and a few in classrooms, to demonstrate science lessons about motion and kinetic energy. Newton's Cradles are one of the few things that Erik enjoys making even though they don't serve any practical purpose.

He's made several Newton's Cradles, but only one chess set. It sits on Charles's desk, the metal pieces still set up in part of a slow, ongoing game that he plays against himself when he has trouble sleeping. There's a plastic, store-bought chess set in the student rec room, but the students rarely ever use it; they all know that Professor Xavier has a keen interest in the game, which makes it "uncool." Charles wasn't surprised when Erik declined his request to make a second chess set for the students. He knows that his old friend thinks of chess as _their_ game, as an intimate part of their relationship, and Charles supposes that in a way, it is.

The picture frames on top of his dresser were all made by Erik, as was the larger frame in his study, that holds his diplomas. There's one more item that Erik made in his bedroom, but Charles keeps it out of sight, hidden away the back bottom drawer of his bedside table. Now, though, he wheels his chair across the room and opens the drawer.

He can't quite remember when he last took the Star of David necklace out of the drawer; it must've been some time ago, because it's now coated in a thin layer of dust. He handles it carefully, for the star's six points are all still as sharp as knives. Erik had been wearing this beneath wetsuit when they first met in the waters off Miami, and Charles often wondered how he had kept it from stabbing him in the chest.

Charles brushes off the dust, and the silver metal still looks shiny and new, even after all these years. Erik had mentioned to him once that he made the necklace in 1948. Charles didn't understand the significance of that year - he knew that it wasn't when Erik first came to America, that was 1949 - and he must've looked confused, because Erik had explained simply, "When Israel was founded."

"Have you been there?" Charles asked. He was surprised when Erik shook his head.

"I'd like to go," he said, not lifting his eyes from the chessboard between them, "but I promised myself that I wouldn't until after I killed Shaw. It's part of my motivation."

Charles grimaced. As if Erik needed any further motivation for killing Shaw. He'd said, a bit edgily, "So, as soon as Shaw is out of the picture, should I expect you to fly off to Israel and never come back?"

Erik _did_ look at him then. "I don't want to make aliyah. I just want to visit it." He paused, then added softly, "I was hoping you might want to come with me."

Charles had felt rather flattered by that. He didn't like the idea of Erik killing Shaw, but how he did _love_ the idea of the two of them traveling to Israel together. For a few precious days, it was his favorite daydream. He had worried about what would happen after Erik killed Shaw and found no peace in it. But if he traveled to Israel... Charles dared to hope that his friend might find a sense of peace when he finally set foot in the Jewish homeland, the country that he'd wanted to visit for so long. He could see them there so clearly. Erik would pin a kippah to his hair and pray at the Western Wall and try to teach him some words of Hebrew. They would buy dates and figs from a street market and some kitschy souvenirs for Raven, and Charles - damn his pale British complexion - would burn, rather than tan, in the heat.

It had never happened, of course - their Israeli vacation. The disastrous Day at the Beach had happened instead. Erik had traveled extensively in the decades since Cuba, but whether he'd ever been to Israel, the land where he'd once dreamed of going, Charles didn't even want to know. He understood that thinking of himself as _Jewish_ put Erik in the same category as _humans_, and so he'd crushed his Jewish identity until it almost didn't exist anymore - almost. Charles dared to hope that it was still in him, somewhere.

There was Hebrew engraving on the front of the star, and Charles didn't know what it said, but he'd always admired how tiny and intricate the letters were. Erik had engraved them very precisely, just as he had with the English words on the pens. He didn't always use metal destructively. Charles knew that he could be incredibly artistic with it too, but his X-Men, of course, had never known that side of his old friend.

Between returning from Cuba and opening the school, Charles had asked Hank to clean out Erik's old room; he couldn't do it himself, since it was on the second floor, overlooking the satellite dish. There were very few personal effects left behind in Erik's room, but Hank had picked up his Star of David necklace from the bedside table and brought it back downstairs to Charles. Charles put it away in the bottom drawer, where it had been ever since, but he still dared to hope that someday, Erik might want it back.

Charles ran his thumb over the Hebrew inscription. He imagined Erik making this necklace in 1948 - he would've still been a young man then, but one who had already seen enough suffering for a thousand years. What would he have written on it? Charles was curious, but he couldn't read it. He only knew a single word of Hebrew: _tikvah_, the title of the Israeli national anthem, the Hebrew word for _hope_.

**FIN**


End file.
